


lifting fog

by participled



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, crowley is cisphobic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 09:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21033704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/participled/pseuds/participled
Summary: There’s no way Crowley gets to have this, no way he gets to wrap himself around Aziraphale in the frill-covered four-poster bed in the flat above the book shop, no way he gets to feel Aziraphale’s hand in his hair and listen to Aziraphale’s steady breath above him. There’s a sword above his head somewhere; he just can’t see it yet.---Or, Crowley has a hard time adjusting to post-Apocalypse life and starts seeing a therapist.





	lifting fog

**Author's Note:**

> sure do love projecting onto fictional characters!

Crowley has never been so tired in his entire, long life as he is when he settles down into the musty bus seat on the way to London from Tadfield. He's so tired that when, moments later, Aziraphale sits down beside him and slides his hand into Crowley's – as if it's something he's done hundreds of times before – Crowley barely has the energy to be surprised. He gives Aziraphale's hand a little squeeze and they settle into the kind of silence you can only settle into when you've very recently averted the Apocalypse.

There's a long line of little indiscretions, quick moments between them that Crowley has had to file away in his memories under the label "do not open," and Crowley figures this is another one. Resigned, he catalogs the feeling of Aziraphale's warm, plush hand, the width of the cradle between each of his fingers, and the firmness in his grip. If this is all he gets until the 22nd century, it's not too bad. Crowley folds himself into the quiet of a moment that won't later be discussed.

"My dear," Aziraphale says, squeezing Crowley's fingers. "I have something I'd like to say, if that's alright."

"'M all ears," Crowley says. "Well, I've only got the two, but. Go ahead."

Aziraphale pauses, then clears his throat. "I'm terribly sorry," he says at last. "You've been incredibly patient with me, and I'm afraid I don't know what I've done to deserve it."

"Oh, er." Crowley waves his free hand with feigned casualness, as though his foolish human heart isn't pounding in his ears. "That's no trouble. What are friends for, right?" He makes the mistake of looking directly into Aziraphale's eyes, which are shining and fixed on him intently.

"You don't have to be patient with me anymore," Aziraphale whispers.

"I don't?" Crowley asks weakly.

Aziraphale shakes his head, still holding Crowley's gaze. He traces Crowley's jaw with the index finger of his free hand and starts to lean towards him.

Crowley bridges the gap, probably quicker than is necessary or smooth. Their teeth clack together when their mouths meet, but Aziraphale steadies him into a soft, chaste kiss.

They break apart, and the expression on Aziraphale's face is unbearable – afraid, but so open and gentle.

"Was that alright?" Aziraphale whispers.

"Yes," Crowley says, a little too quickly and too loudly in the mostly-empty bus. "Yes," he repeats again, "definitely alright. Would love to do it again sometime."

Aziraphale's face breaks into a glowing smile. "Oh, excellent," he says.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment as the bus lurches down a sloping country road.

“Listen,” Aziraphale says suddenly. “About that last prophecy. I have an idea.”

\---

It’s a new beginning for them. After they scare off their employers off (for the time being), there’s no pretense left. They are free to spend as much time to each other as they like, free to say and do what they like with each other. There’s a lot to catch up on.

Crowley has imagined what this would be like, deep in the recesses of his mind where he allows himself to think of things that will never be. He imagined them falling into each other, imagined that he would know exactly what to do and would do it, without even thinking about it. He imagined sweeping Aziraphale off his feet, and he imagined Aziraphale whispering sweet things to him, and touching him, and he imagined it feeling natural, comfortable, and perfect.

In reality, it’s not quite that picturesque.

It’s wonderful – of course it is – but Crowley is on guard. At any moment, this will be taken away from him. He’s sure of it. There’s no way he gets to have this, no way he gets to wrap himself around Aziraphale in the frill-covered four-poster bed in the flat above the book shop, no way he gets to feel Aziraphale’s hand in his hair and listen to Aziraphale’s steady breath above him. There’s a sword above his head somewhere; he just can’t see it yet.

They settle into a routine, one that is not all that different from the one that they'd had over the past few years. Crowley spends most nights in the four-poster, where Aziraphale will occasionally join him, if he isn't reading or tending to other business. Crowley spends most of his days at the book shop, with brief interludes to wreak some light havoc on the people of London. They'll have dinner together at one of restaurants in their regular rotation, then spend the evening in the back room or the bedroom with a bottle of wine (or three). Occasionally, Crowley will get them tickets to a gallery opening or a play that Aziraphale has been strongly hinting about.

Sometimes, Crowley will feel a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over him, and he'll make his excuses – he needs to check on his plants, make sure his flat is as it should be – and disappear for the night. He does check on the flat and yell at his plants, but more importantly, he flops onto his own bed with his own soft, dark sheets and sleeps for 18 hours at a time.

As restful as it is to be on his own back at his flat, it's also itchy. Being back in the world, the world that isn't the bedroom above the book shop, is itchy. It reminds Crowley that as much as it seems like it, his life hasn't magically turned into the dream that he's always clutched tightly to his chest. It reminds him not to get in too deep, because ultimately – well.

It's hard to think about that when he's resting beside Aziraphale in bed as Aziraphale flips through his latest book. It's hard not to be swept up in it all. It's much easier to remind himself of the truth when he's on his own, and as much as he would like to avoid it, he can't let himself forget it. His brief interludes into his own cold flat are a good dose of reality.

\---

They meet with Anathema about a month after the Armageddon-that-wasn’t to compare notes, because it seems like the thing to do. There's nothing out of the ordinary so far, and they haven't heard from their superiors since the switch. Everything seems to be just fine. It's eerie.

"It's not eerie," Aziraphale replies, rolling his eyes. "It's a good sign."

"Does your batty ancestor have anything to say about all of this?" Crowley asks Anathema.

Anathema has been looking between them, smirking slightly. "No. Or at least, I don't think so."

"Small comfort," Crowley grumbles.

The bell above the door chimes just then, and Aziraphale bustles off to intimidate his customers.

Anathema turns to Crowley with a sympathetic glance.

"What?" Crowley snaps.

"Hey, no need to get your claws out," she says, raising her eyebrows. "I was just thinking that it can't have been easy for you to see Heaven again, that's all."

Crowley scoffs. He told Aziraphale it wasn't a good idea to go _checking in_ with humans. They didn't need to be _updated_ on things. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Are you?" Anathema asks, staring at him shrewdly. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," Crowley hisses. He adjusts his sunglasses. "Couldn't be better, in fact."

Anathema’s expression clears. "Oh, you and Aziraphale figured things out."

Crowley can only grumble.

Anathema presses her lips together, suppressing a laugh.

"Fine," Crowley sighs. "We did. We ‘figured things out,’” he says, imitating her with a sneer and a head waggle. “It's been lovely," he says, gagging a little on the last word.

"So everything's fine?"

It's only because Aziraphale likes Anathema that she can ask that and escape unscathed. Well, unscathed so far. Crowley may decide to scathe her later. "Yes," Crowley spits. "Would you like me to say it five more times?"

Anathema keeps staring at him until he huffs, looking away.

"It's just – things changing, you know? Adjustments to be made." He slides a little further down in his seat. "It's just different."

“Scary?”

“It’s not scary. I’m not scared of it,” Crowley mutters.

"Have you considered therapy?" Anathema asks, very gently.

Crowley snorts. "What – like I'd just – oh, hello there, I'm a 6,000-year-old demon, I've got some _feelings_ I'd like to talk about – ”

"Yeah." Anathema shrugs. "I know someone who'd probably be able to work with you. A couple of someones, actually."

"What benefit could I possibly get from that?"

"C'mon. Just try it once. It can't hurt you."

"It can waste my time."

Anathema rummages through her bag. "You might be surprised." She finds an old, scruffy business card, which she hands to Crowley. "Give them a call."

Crowley takes the card reluctantly. "Is this a single-person 'them' or a multi-person 'them'?"

"They're one person."

Well, in that case. Crowley pockets the card. "Fine," he hisses. "I’ll call them."

It takes a couple of months for Crowley to get around to it (not that he's busy with anything, per se), but he calls the number on the business card. He forgets Therapist's name as soon as he hears it and has no intention of learning it again. Therapist is fine with that; they tell him that he doesn't need to know a single thing about them, if he doesn't want. This is a mark in their favor.

The first session is rocky. Crowley is not in the habit of explaining himself to humans. He speaks haltingly, backtracking a lot, his tongue getting tied in knots even more than usual. Therapist nods patiently through it all.

After a few minutes, Crowley stops mid-sentence. "Look, I don't know how this going to work," he says. "So, I think I'm going to go now, if you don't mind – ”

"You can leave if you’d like," Therapist replies, "but can I first ask you why you don't think it will work?"

"Well, for starters, I'm not a human," Crowley says. "I'm not here to talk about a divorce, or losing a loved one, or whatever it is most of your clients talk about. I don't know how you can help me."

"Do you think you could use some help?"

Crowley hesitates. "I don't know. Probably."

"Okay." Therapist shifts in their seat. "There must be some reason you came to see me. What would like help with?"

Crowley curls his toes in his boots and fists his hands into the denim of his trousers. He tries out a lot of different beginnings to his sentence, and eventually says, "I sometimes – sometimes I start think about things that I don't want to be thinking about. And then I can't stop." He lets out a breath, dimly registering that his shoulders are clenched up around his ears.

Therapist smiles. “I hear the same thing from a lot of human clients.”

Crowley nods jerkily. "I can imagine that."

"Do you want to give this a shot? At least for the rest of the hour we have today?"

"Okay," Crowley answers, after a moment.

Not long after, Crowley is talking about kangaroos. They finish up their session and schedule another one.

That is how it continues. Crowley spends an excruciating few minutes speaking about himself in the most general terms he can find, before moving on to an infinitely more enjoyable topic, like wildlife, the cosmos, or cartoons. Therapist doesn’t push him to do more than that, but does give him “homework” – which Crowley doesn’t bother to remember. He pays them triple their standard rate, and figures that’s more than enough to make up for it.

It’s useful. After all, he has a lot of opinions about marsupials, and Aziraphale's patience is limited.

\---

Crowley is in what Aziraphale would describe as "a mood."

It's been about two months since he started therapy. Nine 50-minute segments. And it's made him – well, it's made him an idiot. He’s been speaking about his _emotions_, and somehow that’s improved his mood. He's been feeling optimistic, for fuck's sake.

What exactly is there to be optimistic about?

And Therapist is so smug with their – with their – brown hair? Maybe? Their two eyes, probably? So self-righteous.

Crowley plops down onto their couch, agitated, fully intending to inform Therapist that this is his last session. He opens his mouth to do just that, when part of his brain slips him a scrap of paper with a suggestion on it, and he suppresses a wicked grin.

Sure, he's not required to tempt people anymore. Now he gets to do it for the sheer joy of it.

Crowley ignores whatever opening question Therapist has asked. "Do you know what 1348 smelled like?" he asks, leaning back, as casual as he can muster. "It smelled like a million burst pustules. So many gooey, rotten bodies all over London that year."

Therapist takes notes, face perfectly blank. As always.

"The air smelled like – no, tasted, you could taste it in the air – like death. There were houses where everyone had died, and nobody came to get rid of the bodies, because everyone who knew to come get them was dead in there." Crowley leans forward. "Children. Babies. Dead and forgotten about."

"Why do you think that's on your mind, Crowley?"

Crowley lifts one shoulder, still playing at being casual. "I'm just thinking about humanity's fate, y'know? Probably won't be another epidemic, since you're all about to have a climate catastrophe," he sighs. "Doesn't it make you want to be selfish?"

"I'm not sure I follow.”

"Well, think about it. There's probably less than 100 years left for this planet, and most of that will be practically unlivable because of how bad the weather will be. It's already unbearable in a lot of the world during different parts of the year. So how much good time do you reckon you have left? As much as ten years? Maybe five?" Crowley makes a considering face. "Less than that, even? A couple more years before this whole thing becomes an absolute shithole, could be. And that’s not even getting into all of the violent right-wing movements sprouting up everywhere. So why not, I don't know," he lifts his arms in a theatrical shrug. "Do the things you've always wanted to?"

"What are the things you've always wanted to do?"

"Oh, I don't mean me." Crowley sniffs, shaking his head. "When it gets bad, I'm fucking off. Alpha Centauri with Aziraphale. No, I mean you. Really, you only have a couple of years left to truly let loose, to... I don't know, really get revenge on that ex that you hate. Or – or commit arson, just for fun."

Therapist raises an eyebrow.

"Don't you see what I mean?" Crowley growls. "You could do anything, absssolutely anything you've wanted to do but told yourself that you can't, and this is your lassst chance! You could – you could – asssssasssssinate the prime minissster!"

This earns him no reaction at all.

Crowley lets out a strangled yell. "Why aren't you lissstening to me? You could do anything you wanted!"

Therapist writes something else down in their notebook.

Right. He didn't want to do this; truthfully, he hasn't wanted to do this for six thousand years, but he really has no choice. With a moment of concentration, he goes into his snake form. It is just as smooth and cold as he remembers.

He draws himself up as high as he can and lets out a menacing hiss.

Therapist's eyes had widened a little as Crowley had transformed, but now they watch him blankly. Unmenaced.

Crowley keeps this up for his remaining time, doing anything he can think of to get some kind of reaction. He's not enjoying it any more than Therapist is, but he'll be blessed if he's going to admit that.

When their time ends, Crowley returns to his human corporation and sulks out of the office, sulks down to his Bentley, and sulks straight home, where he sulks for the remainder of the day.

The following day, the smallest tinge of regret starts to edge in over his rage. It grows and grows until, by the day of the following session, it's full on chagrin.

He brings Therapist a watermelon peperomia (doing very well after the tongue-lashing he gave it earlier) and mumbles an apology. He wasn’t in the habit of apologizing two months ago. The words taste like bile.

Therapist thanks him and puts the little peperomia in the corner of the office that Crowley points to. (It’s the northeast corner, obviously, a spot that gets very little direct sunlight.)

And then, once they’ve settled down and said their pleasantries, Therapist clasps their hands together and asks a question that Crowley will come to dread: “Do you want to know what I think?”

Crowley spreads his hands as if to say ‘go ahead.’

“You are accustomed to avoiding your emotions,” Therapist tells him, with the utmost gentleness. “And I think that has served you well in the past. But you cannot do it forever.”

Crowley furrows his brow. “I don’t avoid my emotions. I mean, you were there last week, right?”

“Were you angry at me, Crowley?”

“Yeah, obviously.” Crowley shrugs. “No offense.”

“What was it that you were angry about?”

Crowley opens his mouth, then closes it. “I was just angry.”

Therapist continues to watch Crowley patiently.

“I must have been angry at you, right? That’s how human emotions work. Something upsetting happens, human brain reacts, emotional response, blah blah blah.”

“That’s how it works for some human brains, but not all,” Therapist replies. “And I don’t think that’s what happened last week. If I’ve done anything that you didn’t like, I’m perfectly happy to discuss that with you, but I suspect it wasn’t me you were reacting to.”

“What was I reacting to, then?”

“I don’t know,” Therapist answers. “That’s the thing. When you avoid your emotions, they don’t go away. They just come back up somewhere else.”

Crowley blinks. “So the reason I did – whatever that was last week – ”

“You had an outburst,” Therapist supplies.

“Right, I had an outburst. The reason I did that was because something else upset me, but I didn’t get upset at that thing so I was upset at you instead?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

“Human brains are weird.” Crowley wrinkles his nose.

Therapist gives him a small smile. “As weird as marsupial genitalia, do you think?”

Crowley considers this. “No, not quite.”

And so, he vows to behave himself. He can't say that he'll always be in the sunniest mood, but he promises to stay in his human corporation during therapy and to spend at least 12 and a half minutes of each session talking about himself before he changes the topic.

\---

Crowley and Aziraphale are lounging on the sofa in the back room of the book shop one afternoon, relaxing after lunch, when Crowley is hit with a familiar feeling. This time, it gives him the chance to do one of his homework assignments – communicating his intentions – which makes him smile.

"Hey, angel," Crowley yawns, from where he's dozing in Aziraphale's lap. "I need to tend to some business at my flat tonight, so I'll head out after dinner."

Aziraphale's hand falters where it's petting Crowley's hair. "Okay. I'll miss you," he murmurs.

Crowley tucks his face closer into the soft rolls of Aziraphale's belly, pressing his smile there. "Won't be long, I promise."

His flat is quiet and a little musty when he steps in that night. He hears a distant siren on the street, but nothing else. His shoulders drop, and he lets out a little relieved breath. He waters and berates his plants, then immediately changes into his most luxurious pajama set and goes to sleep.

By the time he wakes up, curled around one of his pillows, the sun is setting again. After lounging for a little longer, he stretches, cracking as many of his joints as he can, and leaves to go back to the book shop. His head is quieter, and he feels languid – like he's ready to crawl into Aziraphale's four-poster as soon as he gets there, despite how long he's already slept.

He presents Aziraphale with a small box of chocolates and a peck on the lips when he arrives.

Aziraphale smiles at him, eyes twinkling. Oh dear.

"What is it?" Crowley asks. "What did you do?"

Aziraphale’s smile shifts into a look of affront and he puts a hand to his chest, clutching pearls that aren’t there. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Excitement bubbles in Crowley's chest, but he keeps his face impassive and unimpressed. "You did something."

"Fine," Aziraphale huff. "I resent that implication, but yes. I have a surprise for you. That I was going to share with you later," he adds, glaring.

Crowley smirks, shrugging. "'S not my fault you're not good at hiding things from me. What's my surprise?"

"Let's go upstairs," Aziraphale says, standing up.

"Oh,” Crowley says, dropping his voice to what he thinks is a sultry pitch. “More experimental genitalia?”

“Not this time,” Aziraphale says, with a distinctly un-angelic twinkle in his eye. “Maybe later, if you like. I don’t think I care for the tentacles, though.”

Crowley sighs, mostly for show.

Aziraphale is leading Crowley up the stairs by the wrist. "Don't look just yet. Keep your eyes on the stairs."

Crowley obeys, despite himself. His heart is beating a little faster.

"Just give me one second to fix a couple of things," Aziraphale tells him, squeezing his hand before he lets go. After a moment, he says, "Okay, you can look."

Crowley looks up, and blinks.

For a second, he thinks Aziraphale has miracled them back to his flat. There's Crowley’s bed – or a mostly-accurate replica of it – in one corner of the room. Off to the other side, there's his throne, and one of his statues. Below the windowsill, there's a new shelf, holding a few plants that look exactly like some of the smaller ones that Crowley has at home.

Crowley blinks again. "Oh."

"We can move things around," Aziraphale rushes to say. "If you don't like them as they are."

"Er." Crowley looks around. There's no hint of anything that was in the room the day before – none of Aziraphale's books, not the four-poster, none of his chintzy tartan furniture. "This is a big change."

"Yes, well I, erm," Aziraphale stammers. "I know you like to have your space with your own aesthetic so I, er, just wanted you to be more comfortable here. Since we've been spending so much time together."

Crowley turns to him, and sees that Aziraphale has a worried look on his face. "Oh," is all he can say.

"You don't like it," Aziraphale guesses, his face falling.

Crowley looks around. He should like it. He knows he's supposed to like it.

"I have to go," he tells Aziraphale tonelessly. He sees panic flash across Aziraphale's face, and his heart clenches a little. "Sorry. I just – I have to go." He turns on his heel and is down the stairs before Aziraphale has time to react.

He drives home in a daze and finds himself parked much sooner than he expected. He stares out of his windshield for a long while, his thoughts racing.

He doesn't know why he isn't happy. It was nice, what Aziraphale did for him. Thoughtful. Right? Aziraphale did such a lovely thing for him, paid attention, noticed what he needed –

Crowley has the crashing realization that he's furious. It’s several more moments of staring unseeingly through the windshield that he starts to piece together why. Finally, he gets out of the car and drags himself back upstairs.

Seeing all his own things again, but this time in the places they’re supposed to be, is somehow a shock. Crowley guffaws to himself and falls back into his throne.

He’d been so silly to think that this thing with him and Aziraphale could work. He was just something for Aziraphale to pick apart and fix, another miracle performed in Heaven’s service. Was that the point from the beginning?

A blanket of black fog rolls across him – that little shadow of worry finally grown full size, skipping straight over doubt and dread into the cold certainty of regret.

He’d been so stupid.

After three days, Crowley bothers to check his phone and sees dozens of missed calls and voicemails.

The fourth day is his appointment with Therapist. He sits down across from them and says, grimly, "I was right about Aziraphale."

"What do you mean?"

"It wasn't real," Crowley continues. "He's trying to," he waves his hand. "Purify me." He exhales a long breath, and describes what Aziraphale did, and what it all means for them.

He looks at the carpet, out the window, at the bookshelves, at a spot a meter from Therapist’s head.

"So, I was right all along," Crowley concludes with a sigh. "I should have known not to get caught up in it."

"You are very certain that your relationship is over," Therapist observes.

"Of course it is," Crowley scoffs.

"What part of what happened makes you the angriest?"

Crowley makes a series of noises with his mouth. "That he thought it was that simple, I guess. Like I would just – like he could just change a few things in his bedroom, and then I'd – then everything would be fixed, and I would move in with him. Or something."

"And you didn't want to move in with him?"

"No," Crowley says. "Well. I don't know. I like having my space sometimes. I need to be alone when I get tired."

"What do you mean?"

Crowley describes his waves of exhaustion and his long naps.

Therapist writes some notes, then sets their pen down carefully and looks up. "Do you get that exhausted when you're at home on your own?"

Crowley pauses, thinking about this. "I don't think so," he says, finally. "Only when I'm away from home. Or with Aziraphale."

"Why do you think that is?"

Crowley shrugs. "I just have to pay attention when I'm away from home. Watch out for threats or, er, my old employers. You know. Just like humans do."

"Some humans do," Therapist agrees. "Have you heard of hypervigilance, Crowley?"

"No."

"It's an increased awareness of, and attention to, your surroundings," Therapist explains. "Constantly scanning your environment for threats, worrying about the reactions of people you're talking to, paying close attention to the sights, sounds, and smells around you."

Crowley nods.

"It generally leads to frequent exhaustion," Therapist says, without any emphasis.

"I see," Crowley says. "Is it a symptom of some human illness?"

"PTSD, generally."

"Hm." Crowley considers this. "I can't have PTSD, though. I'm not a human. Right? I can't possibly."

Therapist lifts their shoulders. "I don't know, honestly. I'm not suggesting a diagnosis. I think it might be useful to think about, though."

"Right." Crowley is quiet for a moment. "So, the reason I need to go home and sleep for so long is because I'm... watching my environment? And the people around me?"

"Could be."

The more Crowley thinks about it, the more it sounds right. "Okay. But," he says, finding a sticking point. "I usually get tired after spending a lot of time with Aziraphale. Aziraphale's not a threat."

"Do you ever feel on edge around him?"

"I suppose," Crowley says slowly.

Therapist nods. “What does that look like for you?”

Crowley breathes out. “I think I’d like to talk about something else now.”

“Thank you for communicating your intentions,” Therapist says. Usually, Crowley just changes the topic without any warning. “Do you think you can push through it today?”

Crowley stares, unsure how to answer.

“What are you feeling right now?”

“Er.” Crowley swallows and thinks for a long moment. “Overwhelmed.”

“That makes sense,” Therapist says. “This is a lot of new things for you to think about.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “I don’t think I can do anything more today.”

“That’s alright. What else did you want to talk about?”

Crowley breathes out, untensing his shoulders, and starts talking about emperor penguins. Therapist surreptitiously flips to another part of their notebook.

\---

Crowley goes to a Waterstones in part because Aziraphale would hate it if he knew. The other part is that he needs to do some research.

He buys a few books that look like what he needs and takes them home. He spends the afternoon reading about PTSD and scoffing to himself. (It's very performative scoffing, truth be told. He just feels as though someone should be looking at him and scoffing, and he's angry with the only person brave enough to do that.)

He's loath to admit it, but a lot of it lines up. As much as any diagnosis for a human can line up with the experiences of an ancient occult entity.

He’s spent more than sixty centuries encouraging all the bad instincts he’s seen in humanity. And, on top of that, for all six thousand of those years he's very carefully avoided doing exactly what he's told – he’s had six thousand years of skirting the rules and watching over his shoulder. Six thousand years of wondering when Hell was coming for him. It was bound to catch up with him eventually.

A demon with PTSD, Crowley thinks, throwing in an extra scoff for good measure.

And yet.

Crowley starts to miss Aziraphale more than he can be angry with him. On the sixth day since he stormed out, he slinks back to the book shop.

Aziraphale is on his feet and trotting towards him before the door even closes. "Crowley," he says, nervous, coming to a dead stop before he gets any further. "It's you. Erm."

Crowley flips the shop's sign to closed and locks the door with a wave. "We should talk."

"Yes, yes of course," Aziraphale agrees, almost tripping in his haste to move towards the back room. "Let's sit."

Crowley sinks into the worn tartan couch, smoothing his hand over the fabric. He takes a deep breath, taking in the scent of the old books, mildew, and cocoa.

"So," Aziraphale begins. "Are we going to talk about – "

"Yes, obviously," Crowley replies, snappish. "I'm very angry with you. Well. Maybe just angry."

Aziraphale blinks. "Not very?"

"No, not at the moment."

"I'm not sure what I did, my dear, but I'm very sorry to have upset you." Aziraphale looks so nervous. He's sitting even more rigidly than usual, and he's fidgeting with his ring and the buttons on his waistcoat.

Crowley lets out a long breath, closing his eyes. "You can't just fix my problems, Aziraphale. I know that's what you were trying to do."

Aziraphale opens his mouth to respond, but Crowley holds his hand up.

"I know that you do it out of divine love, or whatever you want to call it, but I'm not interested. I don't want you to fix me. If that's what this is all about, then I don't think we can continue this."

Aziraphale goes very, very pale.

Crowley holds onto his facade of calm.

"Crowley, I was only trying to help," Aziraphale rasps. "My intention is not to – to fix you, as you put it." He swallows. "I don't know what there is to fix, really."

Crowley squints at him.

"I just wanted you to be more comfortable here, and I know things haven't been easy for you lately." He looks down at his lap. "I thought you might be getting so tired because you don't like it here, or because I'm wearing you out, and I wanted you to have something here that was yours. Somewhere restful for you."

"Oh," Crowley says.

"I thought that was obvious," Aziraphale continues. He pauses. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You got rid of all of your things up there," Crowley says. "It was all stuff for me."

Aziraphale nods. "Well, I don't exactly spend much time in bed. It seemed fitting that the bedroom should be in your style, since you're the one that uses it."

"But I have my own bedroom. At my own flat," Crowley points out.

"I know," Aziraphale says, hesitant. "I wanted to give you the option of having that here, so that you didn't have to go back to your flat all the time. Er. If you didn't want."

"I do want, sometimes. That's not going to change."

Aziraphale blinks.

"I need space from you sometimes," Crowley says, persistent.

"Okay," Aziraphale says, flinching.

"Not because – not because I don't want to be with you," Crowley says quickly. "I just want to be alone sometimes."

"Okay," Aziraphale says again, looking somewhat mollified. "It's not that I'm tiring?"

Crowley thinks back to the books he’s been reading, and what Therapist told him. "No. Well, yes, but not you specifically." He sighs. "I might have PTSD."

“Oh.”

"Yeah.” Crowley sighs. "I don't really understand it. But I get tired when I'm away from home, and it seems like a thing. So I need my own space."

Aziraphale thinks about this for a long moment. "I'd like this to be home for you, someday," he says. "Or not even here specifically. I'm not all that attached to this place."

The corners of Crowley’s lips quirk up. "If you're anything, you're attached to this place, angel."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale says with an exasperated sigh. "I just mean that I'm happy to make sacrifices so that you're comfortable."

Crowley feels a twinge of irritation at that. "I don't want you to do that. You don't have to – to be some kind of selfless savior – "

"That's not what I mean," Aziraphale cuts in.

"Feels like it," Crowley mutters.

Aziraphale stares at him helplessly. "I don't know why you're angry with me."

Crowley mostly isn't, at this point. "I don't know either," he admits.

"That isn't very helpful."

"I know," Crowley snaps. "Sorry. It's just. Confusing. I need some time to think about this."

"Oh." A look of terror comes across Aziraphale's face.

"I'm not running out on you again," Crowley clarifies. Now that he's back here, he doesn't imagine how he could do that again. "Just that I don't know how I feel at the moment, and I don't really... I don't know what to do."

Aziraphale nods. "But you want to be with me?" he asks, hopeful.

"Yeah," Crowley replies. "Of course. I love you."

Aziraphale lights up. "I love you too, my dear. And I'm dreadfully sorry, again."

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley says with a wave of his hand. Suddenly, he hears Therapist’s gentle voice in the back of his mind. “Er. I’m sorry too. For avoiding you for a week.”

Aziraphale goes a little pink. “Oh. Well, that’s – erm. I – ”

“We can be done with this now,” Crowley says, interrupting.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale sighs.

\---

Once they settle back into a rhythm after a couple of days of tiptoeing around each other, Crowley feels a little easier about it all. Every so often, he’ll slip out of a reverie with the dull realization that he’s being hypervigilant – watching the humans around him, tracking movements with his eyes, paying particularly close attention to Aziraphale's every reaction to him – and he can force himself to relax, for a moment.

Aziraphale vanishes all the furniture he miracled to look like Crowley's. They stand together in the middle of the empty bedroom, watching little dust motes swirl in the shafts of light coming through the windows and skylight.

"Echoes in here," Crowley says absently. "'S weird."

"I do want this to be a place where you're comfortable," Aziraphale says again. "But I think I understand what you were saying before. It's not your flat."

"And I don't want it to be," Crowley says. "Because it's yours." _For now_, he adds mentally.

"For now," Aziraphale adds, out loud.

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

"So, compromise," Aziraphale says, clapping his hands together. "What do you want for a bed?"

"I liked the four-poster," Crowley tells him. Aziraphale snaps, and it reappears, frills and all. Crowley appraises it. "Does it need to be so fussy?"

"It's classic!"

“It’s _fussy_,” Crowley repeats.

"Fine," Aziraphale huffs. He snaps again, and approximately 40% of the frills disappear. The bedspread also darkens to a more subtle shade, though it's certainly still tartan. "Better?"

"Much," Crowley says. "Can we add some curtains now?"

Aziraphale snaps, and a pair of velvet blackout curtains like the ones Crowley has (only a soft blue shade instead of black) appear around the windows.

Crowley raises his eyebrows.

"I saw them last time we were at yours," Aziraphale shrugs, blushing. "They're very sensible."

"Very," Crowley agrees.

They continue this way for an hour, finishing with a plant stand to put by the window. Crowley goes downstairs to get the ZZ raven that he thought to bring, and places it on the brand-new plant stand.

He and Aziraphale stand back to survey their work.

"Do you like it?" Crowley asks.

"I do, rather," Aziraphale answers. "More than I did before, perhaps. Do you?"

"Yeah," Crowley says. "It's perfect."

He turns to look at Aziraphale, and the look on his face is so open and soft that it makes Crowley physically ache.

He wants nothing more than to curl up with Aziraphale in this habitat that they've made for themselves, to feel sure, to wrap the two of them up and let Aziraphale protect him. He can almost see it play out in front of him.

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale pulls him close, undoubtedly sensing Crowley’s sudden, stabbing fear. Crowley breathes out, and gradually realizes that not all of the pulses of fear he feels in the room are his own.

He wraps his arms tight around Aziraphale, and the deep knot in the pit of his stomach untwists, just a little.

\---

The longer he spends in therapy, the more he's able to talk about how he feels, and the more he's able to identify the vague clouds of malaise he's always had floating around him. It's not fun. He often thinks about how much easier it was to just have a shitty day and not think about what made it so shitty. Still, on good days, he feels better than he ever has before.

That certainly helps. Until it doesn't.

Crowley feels it coming on like a bad migraine. He has the presence of mind to tell Aziraphale about it beforehand.

"Angel, I'm about to go to my place to sleep for a while," he says through a yawn.

"Okay, dear," Aziraphale responds, looking up from his book. "Can I expect to see you for dinner tomorrow?"

"No," Crowley says, feeling a wave of cold roll through him. "I don't know how long it's going to take, but it'll be longer than that. I was wondering if you might check in my plants, actually."

A worried little line forms itself between Aziraphale's eyebrows. "Certainly, my dear. Would you like me to wake you at some point?"

Crowley shakes his head. "Not unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"No, thank you," Crowley says, even as he's snuggling a fraction closer where he's nestled against him. Aziraphale takes the hint and wraps his arms around him, squeezing gently. Crowley hums, a little bit of pleasure breaking through his fog. “I’ll leave you a list of instructions for the plants.”

After a little while longer, Crowley pulls away, brushing a kiss to Aziraphale's lips before he leaves.

He's not sure how long it's been when he next wakes up, but he hears noises coming from outside his bedroom. He bolts upright immediately and sneaks to the door as quietly as he can, listening there for a moment.

It's Aziraphale, thankfully. He's yelling, for some reason, but it doesn't sound particularly urgent.

Crowley exhales, opening the door.

" – simply not photosynthesizing enough!" Aziraphale is insisting. "You really – you need to shape up!"

Oh. The plants. Aziraphale – lovely Aziraphale – is trying to scare his plants. And he’s terrible at it.

Crowley peeks into the room to watch, his heart fluttering.

"You are very bad plants!" Aziraphale wags his finger at a fiddleleaf fig, who is shaking – not in terror, but mirth. "What do you think Crowley would say about this behavior? Hm?"

"He would say that you all had better hope he doesn't find anything wrong with you," Crowley intones darkly, a rasp in his voice.

Aziraphale jumps about a foot in the air, and the plants immediately all stand to attention.

"My love," Aziraphale says, his eyes shining. he comes towards Crowley and leans up to give him a kiss. "I missed you."

"Hiya, sweetheart," Crowley replies, wrapping his arms around him. "How long was I asleep?"

"Sixteen days. Was it enough, do you think?"

Crowley shrugs, then nods. "For now, yeah."

Aziraphale smiles sweetly up at him. "Good."

Crowley notices that the plants suddenly seem a lot less terrified. "Did you all behave for Aziraphale?" he asks them sternly.

"Oh, they did, they’re all so gor – "

"Shh, no, stop that," Crowley mutters quickly, and then says, "I hope you all didn't think you could slack off just because I wasn't around."

He peers at each of them in turn. At last he gets to his little peace lily, which has two yellowed leaves at the very bottom. "Unacceptable," he pronounces. "Does everyone see this?" He picks up the peace lily and waves it around.

Aziraphale frowns. "It looks perfectly fine," he says.

"Yellow leaves will not be tolerated," Crowley declares, then mouths 'shut up' at Aziraphale. "Everyone, say your goodbyes. Don't be like your friend, or you'll be next," he finishes grimly.

He carries the peace lily out of the room, and Aziraphale follows, confused.

In the kitchen, he turns on the garbage disposal and carefully removes the peace lily from its pot.

Aziraphale gasps. "Oh, you couldn't – "

Crowley shushes him again. "Oh yes, I certainly will," he says, loud enough that he knows it will carry to the other room. He takes a separate pot out of the cupboard and puts the peace lily in it, then leaves it on the counter. He takes the now-empty pot, turning the disposal off as he leaves the room. He places the empty pot on the windowsill, where he knows all his plants will be able to see it and meditate upon it.

Aziraphale has that same shining, loving look in his eyes as he had when Crowley first came into the room. He glances at the rest of the plants, then mimes zipping his lips.

\---

Part of going to therapy, Crowley has learned, is talking about things that he thought he was over. He's done a lot of that in the year since he started therapy, but there's still a lot of things that he hasn't touched yet – things that he suspects he won't be able to touch for a while.

Now, though, it’s time to talk about the fire.

He describes it to Therapist as calmly as he can. He tells them about when he was sitting in his flat, still stewing about the conversation he and Aziraphale had had at the bandstand, when he felt it – a sudden, excruciating shiver that ran up his spine. In his mental map, there was suddenly an empty spot where a bright little dot had been.

When he got to the book shop, it was already a tower of flame.

He tells Therapist about the shelves upon shelves of books being turned into burning confetti, about the cavern of fear that had opened inside of him, about the one book he was able to save. He tells them about the unending hour he had spent at the pub thinking about how Aziraphale was gone forever until Aziraphale appeared before him, blessedly alive, but not really there just yet.

And he tells them about the whole thing with the Apocalypse, of course.

He walks out into the world after his session feeling a little too exposed, a little too close to the surface. 

On his way to the bookshop, he makes a pit stop at a little Japanese bakery. He comes into the bookshop carrying a delicate box and finds Aziraphale poring over one of the books from his new shipment of prophecies, wearing his precise little white gloves. He looks up from it as Crowley comes in, a small smile pulling up the corners of his lips. "Hello, dear."

"Hiya," Crowley says. He sets the pastry box on the edge of Aziraphale's desk, knowing he'll want to keep his gloves free of grease. "I brought you cream puffs. Matcha."

Aziraphale lights up, closing the book immediately and setting it aside with his gloves. "Goodness, what a lovely treat! That's very kind of you, Crowley."

Crowley waves this off, smiling indulgently as Aziraphale sniffs one of the cream puffs. Crowley looks around at the book shop – the cramped bookcases, pressed together in tight little aisles, the ancient squashy armchairs in the corners, the dusty plate-glass windows. Aziraphale's beautiful writing desk. Aziraphale's ledgers and stacks of reading books. Aziraphale, in the middle of it all.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Aziraphale asks, dabbing at his mouth. He looks like a frog on a lily pad, picture-perfect and exactly where he should be.

"Yeah," Crowley says, his voice cracking a little bit, "Well, mostly. I just got back from therapy."

"Had a good session?"

"Yeah." Crowley swallows. "We talked about the fire."

"The fire?" Aziraphale furrows his brows.

"The fire here, I mean. The fire that didn't happen." Crowley clears his throat. "We haven't talked about it, but erm. It really frightened me."

"Oh," Aziraphale says. "I never realized that, what with everything else that happened that day."

"Yeah," Crowley says. "It slips my mind sometimes too."

Aziraphale nods, but doesn't reply. He's looking at Crowley hesitantly, like he can tell that there's something else Crowley wants to say.

Crowley exhales a long breath. He's been talking to Therapist a lot about things that Therapist calls vulnerability and emotional honesty.

"I thought you were gone," Crowley says at last. "I couldn't sense you anywhere. I thought it was all over, and then the Earth was going to be destroyed in a couple of hours, and I'd have to spend eternity smelling Hastur's feet in hell. And I'd never see you again."

"Oh." Aziraphale swallows. "I suppose I hadn't realized that."

Crowley bobs his head.

"I'm terribly sorry about that, my dear."

"No, 's not your fault. That's not what I meant," Crowley says. "I just. Wanted you to know. I don't think I was ever more scared than that, because I didn't know what to do without you."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispers. He comes up from behind the desk to take Crowley's face in his hands. "I'm sorry that happened." He leans up to kiss Crowley sweetly.

Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale, feeling the solidness of his torso against Crowley's own. He runs his hands up across Aziraphale's back, shoulders, and into his hair. Aziraphale smells like chocolate and a little bit like electricity, and he's very warm. Crowley exhales, and the tension leaks out of him.

\---

Gradually, Crowley feels the millennia-old blurriness start to clear. It's like he used to be looking at the world from behind a thick pane of dirty glass, everything coming in distorted and weak. Now, the glass is thinning, and everything is much sharper, louder, brighter.

Most days are good, but some days are harder than they used to be. His highs feel higher and his lows feel lower, everything amplified by his sudden awareness of his own thoughts and moods; it’s like being between two mirrors turned toward each other, in an infinite tunnel filled with copies of himself.

It’s uncomfortable. Sometimes he thinks longingly of the way things used to be – feeling just a little bit bad all the time, with brief interludes spent feeling really quite bad. Therapist has told him that sometimes there’s an awkward growing phase like this where things get worse before they get better, and this is encouraging.

He sees Aziraphale changing, too, which is both terrifying and thrilling.

Aziraphale doesn’t hide as much as he used to before the Apocalypse. He doesn’t confine his affection for Crowley to stolen little glances, or behind cryptic words that Crowley used to turn over for decades at a time. No, these days it’s as though he wants to make sure that everyone can see how much he loves Crowley, most of all Crowley himself. He takes Crowley to plays, operas, and film premieres, always with a proprietary hand at Crowley’s waist.

One day, Crowley overhears Aziraphale tell a customer, “Actually, he’s my _husband_,” using the crispest tone in his arsenal.

Once the customer leaves the book shop empty-handed, Crowley saunters up to the till. “I don’t believe we’ve actually done that paperwork, angel,” is all he says.

A flush creeps up Aziraphale’s neck. “She called you my friend,” he says, scandalized. “She said that my _friend_ was very unhelpful when she asked you where I keep the gothic poetry.”

“To be fair, I was very unhelpful.”

“Yes, and I appreciate that, my love,” Aziraphale says, sparing him a fond look. “But I didn’t want her getting the wrong impression about the nature of our relationship.”

Crowley leans forward, resting his palms on Aziraphale’s desk and smirking. “And why is that?”

“Because we’re not friends,” Aziraphale says, for the second time in Crowley’s recent memory. “We’re – how do humans say it – romantically enmeshed.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Well, certainly no human says that.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “There’s no other convenient term for it,” he says. “I just said husband for simplicity’s sake.”

“Not boyfriend?”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose.

“Partner?” Crowley tries.

“I thought she might think I meant business partner if I said that.”

Crowley shrugs. “Fuckbuddy?”

Aziraphale’s aghast expression is answer enough.

“Fine, fine.” Crowley holds up his hands in surrender, standing back up. “We aren’t married, though. As I’m sure you realize.”

“We could be,” Aziraphale muses. He looks up at Crowley through his eyelashes, bottom lip pushed out just a little bit.

Crowley knows that look, but feels himself melt in spite of himself. He feels a familiar urge – the very same one that resulted in the untimely combustion of a too-loud customer’s smartphone just the other day.

“If you wanted,” Aziraphale continues innocently.

Crowley feels the words on the tip of his tongue, and he almost, _almost_ – but he catches himself. “Hm,” he agrees, feigning nonchalance. “I suppose so. If one of us asked.”

Aziraphale looks surprised, but a smile breaks across his face. “Yes, perhaps.”

Crowley still feels like the words could rush out at any moment, and he knows that with any more prodding, he’ll blurt out a proposal and that will be that. That’s what he’s always done when Aziraphale has given him that look. That’s always been how they’ve done things, how they were able to do things – Aziraphale hinting for some material thing, and Crowley silently fulfilling it. Those were the scraps they got.

Crowley doesn’t have to accept scraps anymore, and neither does Aziraphale. They don’t have to do things in the furtive, desperate way they always have. No, now they have time to draw things out, to relish the love they have for each other, bold in the light of day. They have all the time in the world, and then some.

They’ll get married someday, but not any time soon – probably not this century. Crowley might not even be the one to do the asking at all, he realizes with a little rush.

“Maybe in the meantime I can call you my lover,” Aziraphale murmurs, brightening.

Crowley groans.

\---

They check in with Anathema on the eleventh anniversary of the day the world nearly ended. It seems like the thing to do.

Crowley has rarely seen Aziraphale as excited as he is about having a guest. He putters around the cottage for days before Anathema arrives, tidying things and pondering what he can do to ensure that she’ll be comfortable.

When she finally knocks on their door, there’s an enormous guest room waiting for her. Inside, there’s a stack of warm blankets that almost reach the ceiling, dozens of pillows of varying levels of firmness, and two beds to choose from.

“Do you think I went overboard?” Aziraphale whispers to Crowley once he’s left Anathema to get settled.

“Maybe just a little,” Crowley answers, keeping his face carefully neutral.

Their kitchen is cozy, with a large round table beside a window that overlooks their garden behind a pair of gingham curtains. Their vintage appliances are in soft pastel shades, none of which match, and they all run without any of the mysterious issues most people would grow to expect from such machines – and, of course, without being plugged into a power source. There’s a basil plant perpetually shivering beside the sink.

Once Anathema has a had a chance to freshen up, they gather at the table around a plate of shortbread, which Aziraphale has just pulled out of the oven. This time, it’s impressively edible.

“So,” Anathema says, raising her eyebrows a little. “Elephant in the room. No Newt.”

Aziraphale had called Anathema to invite the two of them a few months ago. Anathema replied that she’d be happy to come, but it would just be her, and didn’t offer any further details. Aziraphale, obviously, hadn’t pressed her for any.

“You split up,” Crowley surmises.

Anathema nods. “We did. Six months ago.”

Crowley and Aziraphale had been to their wedding several years before, on a disgustingly pleasant day in Malibu. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Crowley says.

“Don’t be,” Anathema says quickly. “It was for the better, for both of us.”

“Well, congratulations, then,” Aziraphale says with a small smile. “That must be the only one of Agnes’s prophecies that didn’t come true. Impressive.”

“Yeah.” Anathema shrugs. “Turns out that destiny wasn’t enough.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a small smile.

\---

It took two years after the move for Crowley to accept that it was too much for him to go all the way to London every Wednesday to see Celeste (formerly Therapist) for 50 minutes. With help on their part and a lot of foot-dragging on Crowley’s part, he finds a new therapist closer to home. When that one doesn’t work out, he finds another one, and then another one after that. After a several months and a few world-class temper tantrums, he eventually finds another person he warms to. He dreads the day that she’ll retire and he’ll have to go through the whole process again, but thankfully that’s at least a couple of decades away.

The cottage is the first place that’s been a home to Crowley. It’s filled to the brim with his plants and Aziraphale’s books, and a hodge-podge of the furniture the two of them brought down from London, including their four-poster bed. It’s warm and safe and a little chaotic.

Outside is Crowley’s garden. He yells at these plants the same way he yelled at his plants in London, but it’s not personal anymore. Instead of berating his plants for their leaf spots and yellowing, he yells about other things that make him angry. (Lately, those things are fascism, single-use plastics, and slow-moving pedestrians that walk two abreast).

It takes a long time for Crowley to let go of the idea that the truth of the situation is anything other than what he can see. It takes a long time for him to accept that Aziraphale does truly love him, and that this isn't some elaborate hallucination or a game. He has known it for a while, but he’s known it in the same way that you can know that blue whales are large without actually seeing them. No, it takes much longer for him to know it not just with the part of his mind that deals in facts, but with the part that deals in everything else.

He may worry forever. It's a hard habit to get rid of when you spend more than six thousand years doing it. At some point, though, he no longer worries that this is an illusion.

There's no sudden realization, no one moment when he looks over at Aziraphale and knows. Instead, it comes in a slow build, in thousands of mornings of waking up in a bed Aziraphale made for him. It comes in the gentle singing promise of eternity, no longer a threat but a pleasant eventuality.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed it! i'm on tumblr as participled if you want to say hi.


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